The Retest
by Stamper Comma Leland
Summary: That's not the threat he was going for, but it's one step closer. His feet stay on the desk as he crosses one foot over the other, the challenge in his eyes as he looks at Peter unwavering. [Or, this story contains the spanking of an adult and is the sequel to The Test. Godspeed, gentle readers]


**A/N: **This is one of those cases where I know that if I was to not post this now, I wouldn't post it ever and it would sit in my files all alone and never see the light of day until maybe next year or something was I to decide that I liked it. Haha. Right now, I don't think I like it very much, but I tried. I hope you guys enjoy it. **This is the sequel to The Test, and contains the spanking of an adult.** **If that's not your thing, I don't recommend reading it. **Blah blah blah.

* * *

_Will there be pants? _

Neal worries at his thumb, nibbling at both the skin around the nail and the nail itself. He's been doing this for days. The digit is starting to look rather pathetic, and Neal attempts to will himself to stop lest he finds himself embarrassed when he shows up for his next scheduled manicure. But the question is too big and his will is too slight and his thumb is a thankless vice, damn it to hell.

_What if there aren't pants?_

The questions keep rushing his brain, fearless things always winning unrequited games of chicken, and he wants them to stop. He doesn't want to ponder if there will or won't be pants because pants aren't optional, pants are _required_. Neal's pants, especially, for they are exceptional and classic specimens that will always and forever be in vogue.

_And what did he mean by a _real _spanking?_

Peter has spanked him twice already in the span of two days and both instances have felt real enough. Neal remembers the initial smacks of the first, stern and assertive and leaving his backside tingling through the slow buildup of heat caused by the rest. There was nothing unreal about that, or the second, which may have only been a stinging duo of swats, but was by far enough to make him not want any more.

Neal bites down. The edge of his thumbnail is sharp in his mouth.

Stupid Peter and his stupid spankings and his stupid ways of luring Neal in.

_You're mine. My kid._

And, yet he's been clinging to those two sentences, those four words, those four syllables. So simple in sound and yet so complex in sentiment because blood says its not true, even if Peter does. Experience says it's not true, either. Experience says Neal is no one's kid. But Peter says…Peter says differently.

_You're the only one._

Right. Neal said that. Neal said that while he was drugged and vulnerable, so it must be true that Peter is the only one. Peter is the only one Neal trusts, hence Neal is Peter's. Peter's kid.

_But will there be pants?_

Questions and memories intermingle, tangling his stomach in knots because Neal, by nature, is a purveyor of shenanigans and he knows there's no escaping the day it happens, the day Peter takes him over his knee and gives him this reality that he's never before experienced. Neal shudders at the thought, rolls the thumbnail tip around inside his mouth.

That's enough. What will happen, will happen regardless of any austere amounts of rumination he bestows upon himself. He'll just ignore this phantom tingling in his bottom, clench his thumbs inside of his fists, and relax.

He puts his feet up on his desk and leans back in his chair, sets the case file in his lap and stares at the words. He doesn't read them because it's impossible to read them when all he can think is _will there be pants?_

He sighs and lolls his head back, stares at the ceiling. The case file drips from his thighs and onto the floor, but he doesn't move to pick the papers up. His hands are too busy smothering his thumbs and his mind is too busy being elsewhere to be bothered by something so insignificant as a third rate jewelry forgery.

"Neal."

Neal looks up and edges forward in his seat. The front legs of his chair fall onto the ground. He hadn't even realized he'd been tilted back, but now he's not, and Peter's glaring at him with rigid eyes, has two fingers pointed towards Neal's two feet and then they're aimed down, down towards the floor. Neal merely looks at his handler as the man crosses his arms and waits, waits for Neal's lower appendages to mimic the motion, but they don't and Neal doesn't know what he's doing or why he's being defiant.

Or he does. In the back of his mind, he really does realize exactly what's going on and why his feet aren't budging from his desk. He has to _know_. He has to know if there will be pants, he has to know how much it's going to hurt because Neal isn't a bad man, but he's not a good boy, either and chances are he's going to find himself ass to the ceiling a great many times if this thing's going to transpire, if he's going to play his part appropriately so that Peter will keep him.

But what is he doing?

"What are you doing?" Peter's breath is in his ear, and there's a strong, firm hand on his shoulder, squeezing. "Feet belong on the floor, Neal. Files belong in their folders, on desks. Now sit up, clean up, and get to work. Next time I look over here, I better see a busy little bee or I'm taking you into my office where I can keep an eye on you."

That's not the threat he was going for, but it's one step closer. His feet stay on the desk as he crosses one foot over the other, the challenge in his eyes as he looks at Peter unwavering.

* * *

_6 hours later…_

Neal eyes the front door of the Burke household. His feet feel antsy and quick.

"Oh no you don't," Peter says, patting his lap. "This is what you've been asking for. I don't know why, but you have, and this is one of those times when I'm not going to deny you, because quite frankly, Caffrey, you've been pissing me the hell off all day."

Neal stares at his shoes, feeling dejected by Peter's tone, but what did he expect from the man? A long-suffering sigh and a pet name? Images from the day flash back through his mind: the forceful removal of his feet from the desk, the case file landing squarely against his ass. Diana and Jones chuckling as Neal hid Peter's coffee mug in retribution. Peter's face, usually so calm and controlled, turning one to two shades redder as each hour passed.

"Neal." His name comes out the back of Peter's throat and through gritted teeth. "Get over here."

Neal tries to mentally prepare himself, imagining the feel of Peter's thigh pressed against his abdomen, his feet dragging across the floor as Peter shifts him about for a better target, his face muffled in the couch.

He tries to imagine the feeling of the question finally being answered, but the simple thought of it fills him with a cold trepidation that freezes his limbs, turns him into a static fixture in the middle of the living room.

"Neal George Caffrey," Peter growls, and he sounds just like Neal imagines a father should sound when his kid is in deep and wading deeper.

He supposes the sound of his full name should strike further fear in his heart, as opposed to this warm blossoming occurrence that's going on, that's melting that immobilizing ice from his bones and permitting him to shift on his feet and swallow, to ask, "Will there be pants?"

And there, it's out. It's out and Peter's staring at him, his jaw going slack for half a second before the man regains his composure. Something flashes through Peter's eyes, then, something strangely akin to sympathy. "Neal…yeah, kid, there will be pants. This time."

Neal nods, feeling a tiny bit of relief at the response. Then, "But if I'm bad enough?"

"If you _do_ something bad enough, we might have to reconsider the pants," Peter says. "But we'll see."

"Will you ever…?" Neal trails off, not sure how to ask, feeling frightened by the mere notion.

"Will I ever…?" Peter prompts, but Neal can't get it out. He opens his mouth, but his throat goes dry and there's suddenly a large lump in there, so he just looks down, fingers his belt and chances a glance back at Peter, who's gone pale. "No," the man says definitively. "No, Neal, I…I know you're not a kid, but this isn't about that…this isn't about seeing how much pain I can put you in."

"But it's going to hurt," Neal says softly.

"More your pride than your ass," Peter replies.

Neal looks up fully, braves the next question. "What's it about then?"

And it's Peter's turn to swallow, to put his eyes to his hands before meeting Neal's gaze. "It's about us. It's about you doing something you know or should know is wrong and me correcting you. It's about you and me, not you, me, and a belt, or you, me, and a paddle, or whatever combination of things you've imagined up since you started your games today."

"Before that," Neal says, taking a step closer to Peter, to Peter's lap, and to Peter's hands. "I wanted to know what real is."

"What real is?"

"A few days ago, when I took your wallet," Neal says, taking another step. "You said you'd take me home and give me a real sp-…one. I wanted to know what wasn't real about the last two. Was it the informality of it? Was it because it didn't hurt that much? I didn't know, Peter. I had to know." His teeth sink into his lower lip as he casts his eyes downward.

Peter sighs and shakes his head. Then he takes his hands out of his lap, holds one out, says, "Give me your wrist, kid."

Neal takes another step, offers out his wrist, which Peter takes and drags him forward with a gentle tug, brings him to stand between his knees like he's a much smaller version of the same child that he currently is.

"Peter?" Neal asks, feeling his legs tremble a little at this stance, how it makes him feel small and vulnerable, how despite the fact that he is sitting down and Neal is standing up, Peter comes off as stern and powerful, god-like in his position.

"You realize you could have just asked me these questions. You didn't have to go and get yourself in trouble."

Neal allows himself a smile despite his shaking legs. "I learn by doing," he says.

Peter rolls his eyes. "And I should know this by now."

They stay like that for several moments, Peter staring up at Neal with steady eyes until Neal begins to fidget and then finally, he takes the conman by the hips, steers him out from between his legs and then drapes him over his lap. Neal's face goes into the couch cushion, his feet drag along the floor as Peter shifts him around for the optimum positioning of his ass. He awaits the first smack, blue eyes closed, but then Peter shifts him again, tucks him in tightly to his abdomen, rubs his back and says, "I'm right here, Neal."

And Neal feels his lips twitch upwards, his response muffled as he replies, "I know. Thanks."

"Ready?"

"Uh huh."

The first smack is a brazen bastard, landing a lasting sting across the rise of Neal's right buttock, eliciting a heartfelt "_ow_" from Neal and a snort from Peter.

"Drama prince," Peter says, but Neal doesn't agree, and puts his hand back to cover his delicate posterior.

"Okay, I think I get it now," he says, turning his head at an awkward position to get a look up at Peter's chin. "A real spanking is over your lap, hurts, and I don't like it."

Peter raises one brow, moves Neal's hand and pins it to the small of his back. "You liked the previous two?"

"No, but I especially don't like this," Neal says, and then grits his teeth as Peter gives him another smart swat to the center of his bottom. " Peterrr…"

But Peter ignores his whines, fells three, four, _five_ more in rapid succession before letting up and releasing Neal's hand, reaching forward and rubbing between the conman's shoulder blades as Neal reaches back with _both _hands and rubs fiercely at his burning behind.

"Ow, ow, ow," he chants, and rolls off of Peter's lap, fidgets and dances, all the while rubbing, before tipping over onto one leg and falling next to Peter on the couch. He places his forehead against the man's shoulder and continues his chorus of displeasure.

"You're okay," Peter says soothingly. He wedges an arm under Neal's back, pulls him in until Neal's left leg is up over Peter's right and he's halfway in the agent's lap, his bottom relieved from the slight pressure of the couch cushions. "You're making a show of this, aren't you, buddy?"

"It _hurt_," Neal says, and almost manages to will tears to his eyes, because yes, maybe he is making a bit of a show of it, but that doesn't make those seven stinging swats to his ass any less of an alliterative or universal travesty.

"You're okay," Peter repeats, and there's a hand brushing up and down Neal's side. Neal breathes, soaks in the rhythm of that hand, doesn't realize until it's too late that he's slumped against the man like a dead weight. He doesn't realize until it's too late that all he did to get to this moment was nothing but the same – oppressive and burdensome, an annoyance.

"I'm sorry," he says, his eyes prickling with tears that are real because, this time, it's not a show.

And all Peter does is all that Peter has to do: he continues trailing that hand up and down, up and down all along Neal's side, saying "You're okay, kid. You're okay."


End file.
